


Étude

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dave Strider falls in love with a fellow musician.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Étude

**Author's Note:**

> Some AU pseudo-sadstuck, vaguely inspired by this picture: http://marrionettekind.tumblr.com/post/15711072948

Sometimes you mix a little sampling of classical music into your tunes, and no one really questions it because it _works_ , it keeps the club bunnies coming back and humping and grinding each other into oblivion and you get paid for your work and for your compositions and it keeps the gas and electricity running and pays for your shitty internet access that keeps you sane. 

 

No one questions when you slip pieces of a piano sonata woven into a throbbing beat, nobody thinks it's anything more than one sample out of many, one patchy scrap of the club fabric that you stitch together, uneven and disjointed and primal and ephemeral and _meaningless_.

 

No one questions and you are fine with that because you know that they wouldn't understand, that the type of people who frequent the clubs and pay for your gas and electricity and Internet and food wouldn't even appreciate the subtlety of your experimental taste. 

 

You are fine with that because you don't know anyone who would appreciate John Egbert and his music as much as you do. 

 

Egbert _speaks_ to you in a way that few other musicians have--the notes that he's written are beautiful even when played by foreign hands, and you even own a few recordings and "own" a couple hundred more courtesy of the Internet, and when you close your eyes and listens to them on your shitty futon and you can _imagine_ him, his image already imprinted on your mind through studying photos of him. The photos of him looking so prim and proper, clad in a dark suit with ivory buttons and fucking damn coattails and a lily-white cravat that blends into the cream of his skin and _shit_ \--you can imagine the slender curve of his fingers as he works at the piano, his body moving languid and fluid, completely in tune with the intensity of the music, you can see the arch of his back as he reaches the swell of the crescendo before he comes down, crouched over the keys and you can practically hear him panting and _shit--_

 __

Sometimes you touch yourself to the thoughts of Egbert playing the piano and _fuck_ if any of the girls you have dated knew about the fact that you jerked it to a classical pianist your smooth facade would be absolutely dissolved and desecrated. 

 

But you still find yourself wanting, wanting John in the same way that twelve-year-old girls pine over virginal pop stars, even though you know it's practically impossible that you will _ever_ have him.

 

Because John Egbert is respected in a world that is far beyond your own, a world where construction and beauty are venerated, a world beyond the club rats dry-humping each other into the walls and paying little attention to the wonder of the clear and mournful nocturne that slides underneath the grinding gears of the electronic white noise--

 

 _Shit,_ you wish you could meet John Egbert one day. 

 

You wish you could meet John Egbert one day and tell him everything that has been building up in your brain, tell him of your respect and admiration and _love_ for him--

 

Yes, you wish you could meet John Egbert because you love John Egbert, you love John Egbert and his music and him and damn it you love him _so much_ \--

 

You wish you could meet John Egbert one day even though John Egbert is worlds away from you yet when you're touching and massaging yourself to a blossoming concerto that hardly seems to matter--

 

But every time you fall down from one of your orgasmic highs, coming to the thought of John and his virtuosic fingers sending a jolt through his entire body and a silent scream tearing from his lips as he jams a final climactic chord on the piano,  you are reminded of one crucial and shattering fact.

 

John Egbert has been dead for two hundred years. 


End file.
